


metasupervision

by Insular_Keyboard_Chimp



Category: Original Work
Genre: Hallucinations, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Instability, Mindfuck, Psychotropic Drugs, Self-cest, sleep paralysis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2424488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insular_Keyboard_Chimp/pseuds/Insular_Keyboard_Chimp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>somebody's gotta watch your back</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. intake form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heads up:
> 
> porn's in chapter seven

I cannot determine where sleep converges with wake. I lay on a mattress swollen with sweat and piss and terror. Writhing as I do, I can feel and hear the creaking of corroded springs beneath the unmade pillowtop. A jersey sheet twines damply between my calves as I twist through the night. A standing fan whirs in the corner, wafting cool air onto my overheated form, and I'm grateful for it. I lie invitingly still in a ritual to tempt sleep to my bedside. I go ramrod stiff, sudden, rigid, and unnatural. Sleep will have none of it, and neither will my nerves, so I abort the plan. I flail on the mattress until my limbs are sore, until I'm too fatigued to move, and then I roll defeated onto my stomach. As my pulse thrums between my ears, sleep arrives. In a small concession, she flicks the switch and I'm unconscious for several seconds. As if she's toying with me out of spite, I soon hear a faintly airy chuckle and awaken immobile. I immediately panic, paralyzed for an indeterminate length of time – it may be a microsecond, it may be half a minute – and try to regain control.

“Wake up. Fuck, wake up,” I mentally implore my body. It complies, shocked awake by my panic, and soon I'm lying there, autonomous and exhausted. The cycle continues.

A hazy light eventually leaks through the blinds to signal dawn. The pale blue tint of the skyline soon gives way to a blinding yellow light that singes my tired retinas. Morning is a complex thing, to the insomniac. It'll heroically rescue you from the oppression of the night – the expectation of slumber – but it won't forgive your exhaustion. Day and night, always demanding, immutable and unforgiving. I suddenly want to choke.

“Rough night,” I rasp to nobody in particular. Facing the window, I peel off my sheet and stretch. The room is filthy: barren and dusty, computer, desk, mattress on the floor and undressed. Owned by some troglodyte of a teenager: filthy, bony, undressed. Nobody should have let me sign a lease on a real apartment. Granted, after the nervous breakdown, I feel safer living alone than with other people. Family can afford it, anyway, I guess. They said it was an ordinary college expense to console me. I don't mind, really. I should feel happy and independent because I'm living alone on their dime. A cursory glance over my desk yields some small comfort in the form of empty prescription bottles. I reach over and roll the orange cylinders until they fall onto the carpet, where I reclaim them. The labels are frayed at the edges, but I can still make out the important information:

 SHULGIN, EDGAR            SHULGIN, EDGAR

LORAZEPAM 1MG            ZOLPIDEM 10MG

Generic For: ATIVAN 1MG            Generic For: AMBIEN 10MG

Qty 30.00            Qty 30.00

Orig. Rx 12/07/02            Orig. Rx 12/07/02

 

It's the 4th of January, right? That means it's two – I count the prior month's length on my fingers – days before I can get them refilled. I have some unexpired Seroquel left over from a few months ago, but that's a last resort. It might do more harm than good, honestly. I blearily stack the bottles on the plastic desk and sit at my laptop. The day won't wait for me; even if the deadline for my online assignments isn't until tonight, I need to finish them before I go incoherent from exhaustion.


	2. executive dysfunction

15x² - 25x + 12 – Paper, I need paper...where'd I put the paper? I shuffle a stack of used drawing paper in search of a clean ruled notebook. No, that's not – fuck, I can't find anything. Why can't I find anything? I wheel the computer chair to the knee-high particle board cabinet propped against the wall. While opening the beige storage container, the hinge catches on a rumpled shirt hanging halfway out of the shelf. Wedged firmly inside of the metal barrel, the fabric prevents the cabinet from being fully opened or closed. I must have carelessly thrown the stained t-shirt inside and forgotten about it. I tug at it and rattle the cabinet in my effort to dislodge it.

"God dammit, I just wanted a notebook," I sigh while rolling my chair backwards to get some workspace. The plastic wheels beneath me won't budge, however, as they've somehow tangled themselves with an extension cord. Frustrated, I jerk the chair to the side. Predictably, I end up going for a tumble with the chair in tow. This is so commonplace that I reflexively aim myself to fall sideways and onto the bed. Sticking the landing, I wearily climb out from underneath the debris, right the chair, and scoot on my knees back to the cabinet. With all the finesse of Mr. Bean, I give the stuck shirt a mighty tug and succeed in tearing half of it loose, the rest of it still jammed in the hinge. It was old anyway, and now I can open the cabinet, which I do.

The sole notebook inside is buried underneath scattered blank CD-ROMs. It's soiled. I don't know what it's soiled with, but it's crisp with a foul coffee-colored liquid. The odor reminds me of stale Pepsi, come to think of it. Math is decidedly not in the cards. Slightly exasperated, I sit back in front of my laptop and navigate to the multiple-choice history quiz due tonight. The fluorescent glow of the computer screen stings a bit. I feel dizzy. Glancing at the mirrored closet door opposite the gross-notebook-cabinet, I notice that my eyes are bloodshot. I peel the lower lid down with a tapered finger before closing my eyes and pressing. A rush of sinus fluid seems to collect behind my eyeballs and dribble down my throat. It burns, but my headache feels less intense. I begin to roll my fingertips harshly over my eyelids to milk the pressure out of my skull. When I open my eyes, a dull tension throbs behind them and I reel dizzily. Nothing in my reflection has changed.

I groan loudly and turn back to the computer. The quiz timer has been ticking down the whole time I was dicking around with the mirror, and now I've got five minutes to complete twenty questions. I grab the Modern History textbook from the cranny it'd been jammed into and rifle through the chapters, speed-skimming until I find the golden keywords referenced by the quiz questions. Shit, shit -- how can something so mundane be so difficult? The last five questions end up being wild guesses. I manage a lucky 85%, and that's good enough. A pesky, nagging voice in my head disagrees, but I silence it with sheer fatigued indifference. The faster I get this shit done, the faster I can pass out.


	3. paranoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> writing convincing unreliable narrators is hard

"I'm sorry," he said to the crowd, "I'm sorry. Please, I didn't mean to."

The vague sea of faces morphs and rises as a menacing tsunami. It unfolds over an elongated swath of rolling black fabric and overtakes the pleading boy. He's smothered underneath grotesquely stretched nostrils that spout plumes of hot steam onto his clammy skin. He's consumed by terrifying rows of teeth and tongues that protrude from sneering mouths -- laughing girls -- naked. I want to wake up.

I wake up with a startled gasp. I may have screamed, but I'm not certain. I'm not being punished by vengeful peers, no; I'm stooped over the desk, trembling, sweaty, and quite alone. The laptop screen had automatically turned itself off, so I must've drifted off for at least ten minutes. I check the clock and it's been fifteen. It takes around two hours for REM sleep to begin, though, so I must've been asleep longer. The clock must be wrong, since you can't dream outside of REM sleep. Free-floating nightmares don't just  _happen_ during powernaps, do they? I resynchronize the Windows clock to UTC time and it's still _incorrectly_ 1:00 PM.

No, no. Not right. You don't just _get_ nightmares. I reach over and grab one of my empty prescription bottles, cradling it against my chest like a security object. 

"Don't think about it," I soothe myself while thumbing the label. Inspecting it, I notice a red ring around the quantity and refill date.  _That wasn't there before_. Somebody's written on it. Did I let my family touch it? How long has it been since they visited? Eight weeks and five days. _Eight plus five is thirteen._ I set down the ominous bottle and meditate on the significance of the traditionally biblical number. It isn't a coincidence; it's a sick practical joke, probably. They anticipated that it'd take approximately that amount of time for me to notice, but notice  _what?_   The prescription date is 12/07/02. Added together, the slash-separated numbers equal _twenty-one_. The refill is available on 01/06/03. Add them together, they equal  _ten_ : 21:10. 

_"The soul of the wicked desireth evil: his neighbour findeth no favour in his eyes." - Proverb 21:10_

Hilarious.

Exhausted.

I plunge myself backwards and fall fitfully asleep on my innerspring mattress.


	4. inadequate nutrition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gotta look the part
> 
> (i can't believe anybody is reading this
> 
> thank you
> 
> i'm sorry)

Outside and a story below my bedroom, a repairman jackhammers a slab of concrete.

_Thud--thud-thud-vrr-rr-rattle-rattle--vrr._

As the rhythm eases me out of somnolence, I peer through the blinds and predict that it's past noon.

_Rrr-spark-rattle._

As I gingerly climb off the bed, cautiously buoying myself on anything within reach, I remember the complex-wide email the landlord sent out yesterday. They sent in a service crew to replace the lampposts this afternoon. Checking my clock, it's -- uh -- not too late to go grocery shopping. I stumble into the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom and hastily comb down my split ends. I slap a palmful of styling gel onto my scalp and muss my hair into a fringe with stiffened flyaways. I wash the navy blue sludge off my hands and pat my stubbled cheeks with cold water. I sling on some crumpled trousers, a torn t-shirt, and a billfold stacked with fives. On the way out, I shuffle into some velcro sandals before opening the front door.

The jackhammer pistoning into the sidewalk beside the stairwell rattles the banister. The thrumming noise and the chalky debris drums up another migraine as I descend the stairs. The burly workers, clad in fluorescent orange vests and stooped over the ditch, don't make eye contact with me. That's all for the better. A twenty minute walk to the grocery store should give them enough time to finish construction for the afternoon. The sun's already sinking behind the distant mountains, so it'll be dark by the time I get home. I swell with relief at the thought of a solitary walk on a brisk winter evening. The anticipation is enough to fuel me across the crowded crosswalk and into the soup aisle of Value Mart Grocery.

I browse quietly. With my spine flush to a box of Hamburger Helper, I knock fifteen dollars' worth of Top Ramen and Progresso soup into a handcart and hightail it to the cashier. We don't make eye contact either.


	5. risky behavior

I gather the flimsy plastic handle of my grocery bag into my fist and trudge to the automatic exit. The windowpanes are tinted pitch-black. I pause in my advance when my foot touches the sensor mat and the doors slide apart. A slim crack of crimson light widens into the vast sunset enveloping the parking lot. I tentatively step into the desolate void that was once bustling with people. As far as the eye can see, there is nothing but lukewarm blacktop and dim streetlamps. In the distance, I can still hear post-rush hour traffic humming down the freeway. Not here, though, no. Through their invigilance, the people have let me conquer a tiny territory of my own. I could bask in the vacant tract of concrete and asphalt for eternity.

_Vreeek--bEEEEEp!_

Nothing lasts forever, does it? Alertly scanning the periphery of my one-man island, I dip to dodge a moist cigarette butt jettisoned from an open van window. The vehicle it was ejected from swerves in front of me so sharply that the front tires narrowly avoid crushing my toes. The engine whirrs angrily before simmering down as the driver changes into parking gear. I instinctively crumple into a defensive stance -- the lesser-known vertical fetal position -- and await my demise. Squinting through my bangs, I watch impotently as a burly silhouette muscles himself out of his cramped steel-alloy deathtrap. The headlights of his vehicle flash twice before he crosses over the hood and addresses me.

"Shit, man! Hey, I'm sorry about that. Really, wasn't thinking. Yo, buddy, hey," he apologizes, "Are you doing alright there? You fine? Did I hit you?"

He's aggressively cordial, but there's something very primitive in his eyes. They're mugshot eyes. He's probably six-foot-six, with plenty of weight to throw around. He's wearing one of those gaudy plaid camp shirts over a stained, tucked-in tee. When he lumbers at me with an unsteady stride, his pugnacious gut wobbles along, as if it were steering him. I briefly entertain the thought that he might eat me. Cowering against the wall as he advances, I try to ward him off by shaking my head violently and muttering.

"No, no," I try to say, "It's -- it's..."

The man's oblong, bloated face scrunches up in dissatisfaction. He seems to notice my trepidation and backs away accordingly. Scratching at his bushy stubble, he glances at my shopping bag and nods sagely.

"Ah, I get it. You're doing alright for yourself, aren't you? Not a scratch on you. I could front you something good, you know, for compensation," he says cryptically. He waves me over to the back of his van. He flings open the doors and glances at me expectantly. I haven't moved from the spot, and he chuckles knowingly. He rummages around in the back of his van while I slowly gather the nerve to join him. A quick peek inside the vehicle elucidates the situation: there are nearly a dozen black duffel bags stacked against the van walls. My jaw drops and I do a double-take at the guy; he's smiling.

"It's business," he comments as he unzips one of the bags. He clandestinely flashes the contents at me, and my curiosity is piqued. Inside of the unassuming bag are wrapped bundles of what I can only assume is marijuana. Crammed into the crannies are suspicious white boxes without labels. One of them has a colorfully decorated sheet of tissue paper sticking out. A wrapper? No, why would it be a wrapper? I'm curious, and that curiosity overrides my sense of self-preservation.

"I'm Jonathan, by the way," he says as he zips the bag up and thrusts it at me. I awkwardly hook my groceries over my shoulder and accept the duffel bag. It's surprisingly lightweight. Jonathan looks pleased and reaches into his pocket. Out comes his cellphone, on which he quickly dials a contact. With the phone to his ear, Jonathan crooks his finger at me and sits in his van. 

"Yeah, hey. Remember the transport? I found someone," he says to the mystery connection. _Found someone?_  I must be either in shock or extremely dim-witted, because only now does the situation cohere: Jonathan needs a drug mule, and I fit the profile perfectly.

Something instinctually panicky flares in my chest and, with my heart rate approaching a booming crescendo, I impulsively make off with the duffel bag. Sprinting down the street, I hear Jonathan shouting. I don't look back at him, but something tells me that he's stuck in the conundrum of pursuing me either on foot or in his van. He wouldn't leave the van behind, and as I duck into the narrow alleys of my apartment complex, there's no chance of him navigating the backstreets fast enough to catch me in his headlights. I nimbly ascend the outdoor staircase to my apartment, slam the door shut, and fling the deadbolt closed. Riding on the adrenaline of a great escape, I feel like a live wire, sparking with freak energy. It's a shame that I can't do this every night. Why  _can't_ I do this every night? 

...Oh, right.

Jonathan probably wants his bag back.


	6. escapism

Why didn't I think? Why didn't I run earlier? Why is it _always_ **_me_**?

I slump against the front door and cast the contraband bag into a corner. It skids along the floor as I collapse opposite it. The apartment is unlit, and I'm too nervous to turn the ceiling lamp on, so I'm stuck trembling in the darkness. My throat constricts tightly and I clap a hand over my mouth to silence the irregular huffing noises I'm unintentionally making. Bile churns in my stomach until I'm retching from nausea and fear. Between dry-heaves, I hyperventilate and cry, the noise poorly stifled by my fist. If I were to stand, I'd likely topple over, because the goddamn room is spinning and I can't find my balance. Maybe if I crawl, I can reach my room and find something to ease my nerves. My joints crackle stiffly as I unfurl my clenched form and drag myself into the bedroom. I leave a trail of snot and saline behind me as I rise on my rugburn-chafed knees to grab my prescription bottles. My unsteady hand knocks the vessels onto the carpet and I choke down a sob as I'm reminded that they're empty. With no other recourse, I return to the apartment's doorway and shakily flick a light on.

I have no other option, do I? If the dealer is going to kill me, I don't want to be sober while he does it. Summoning the spare traces of courage I have left, I commit fully to my crime by unzipping the duffel bag and tipping the contents onto the floor. Underneath the bags of weed are a few nondescript bottles of pills and a box of strangely whimsical tissue paper. On impulse, I open one of the bottles and inspect the pills. They're white, oval tablets engraved with the label  _M365_. I recall from experience that they're Vicodin; that's familiar enough. I pop two of them and swallow them with a mouthful of my own spit. There's something liberating in it -- a feeling I can't quite place -- as I use up my ill-gotten reward. The paper comes next, and I've got no idea what to expect. It's thin tissue perforated into conjoined squares with colorful symbols stamped on it. Clearly, it's not blunt paper. I tear a square off on the dotted line and pinch it tightly. It's not adhesive, so it's not a patch. I place it on my tongue and let the concoction dissolve into my inner cheek.

 

 


	7. substance abuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in this episode of shitty romanticized drug story, our protagonist has sex with his own warped masculinity after dropping acid

The flimsy patch clings to my vestibule as I recoil from the contraband bag. I'm slowly lulled into complacency by the double-dose of Vicodin I popped minutes earlier. In the crux of my sternum, where my ribcage was straining to escape my scrawny abdomen, I feel a melty warmth seeping out and leaking into my skeleton. My palpitating heart is engulfed by a blissful sheath of lambskin and velvet as I shamble to my bedroom and flop onto the mattress. The shrieking of the late-night traffic outside morphs into a soothing din of rubber tires and melodic horns that seem to reverberate straight through my ears and into the soles of my feet as I sprawl into my comfortable blanket. Chewing on the waxy remains of the tissue paper, which has mostly dissolved, I've purged both the memory of Jonathan and the anxiety that accompanied it.

Across the room, the handprint-streaked mirror casts my reflection back at me. The headlights of passing cars from the intersection outside my window flicker in the reflection like strobelights. They briefly illuminate my visage as they pass. Out of curiosity, or perhaps vanity, I crawl to the mirror to admire the face. It's not quite recognizable to me -- not the familiar high cheekbones and hollow jowls -- but it's most certainly me. The man there, gawking at me from the other side of the mirror, has ruggedly handsome features and a sprout of stubble on his chin. When I first started growing hair, I was fastidious about keeping it groomed. I shaved daily, sometimes until I nicked the skin or scraped it raw. I'd then pat aftershave into the sores and endure the searing sting until it naturally faded. I'd show up to class with swollen cheeks, reeking of rubbing alcohol and drawing the silent ire of my classmates. Nobody confronted me about it. Nobody really confronted me about anything.

How long has it been since I last shaved? As if to echo my thoughts -- as if to mock me -- the doppelganger in the mirror scratches at his stubble and smiles wryly. He leans forward, schadenfreude glinting in his sharp eyes, and stares at me. Startled by the autonomy of my own reflection, I violently clatter the mirror. The resultant clang mingles with the sound of the doppelganger laughing in a throaty and deep voice. He sounds like iron shards in a rock tumbler, or a throttling car engine personified. He certainly isn't me. He musses his cropped black hair before resuming his unnerving silent smirking act. I wait with bated breath for him to do something, anything at all, to end the standoff. The apparition seems amused by my discomfort and perfectly satisfied with teetering on the tightrope between malice and benevolence. It's irritating.

"Are you just gonna' _stare_ ," he asks, "or are you gonna' do something interesting for once?"

I opt to sit slack-jawed in shock. Snorting reproachfully at my inaction, the doppelganger concludes that I'm not going to initiate -- uh -- anything. He realizes he's unwelcome, and he doesn't give a single fuck.

"I don't want you here. I want you to leave. Get the fuck out, man," I demand angrily. 

"Th' fuck? Suddenly you've got balls, huh? Score some junk off an idiot, and now you're a badass, huh?" The doppelganger's gravelly voice drops another octave until he's practically snarling at me. In a fluid and unanticipated act of aggression, the man emerges from the mirror and tackles me to the floor. I can feel his bony fingers digging into my shoulders and his weight pinning me to the carpet. He's laughing at me again, in his uniquely haunting timbre, and straddling my waist. The deranged freak is grinning down at me.

"Still feeling like a tough guy? I can score some junk too, you know." It's too vivid. It's too real. He's groping my groin underneath the waistband of my trousers with sinister delight in his eyes. 

"Stop, stop, Jesus! Fucking hell! Please!" I shout while flailing impotently at him. He chuckles and relents enough that I can prop myself up on my elbows and stretch my legs out between his knees.

"Say 'uncle' and I might give you a break," he says as he lazily sprawls across my waist, "That shit hit you hard, huh? Probably LSD."

When I look up at him, I can clearly distinguish his features. They're similar to mine, but with the distinct difference of being predatory and angular where I'm feeble and soft. I eye him almost reverently. He notices. Gently, his knuckle brushes my chin, and I cringe at the ghostly caress. "I don't know what you're doing. I don't get it, so please, fucking leave -- just leave and," I plead before being cut off by his knuckle pressing against my mouth. 

"Bite me," he snickers. I hesitate at the challenging remark before doing exactly as he requested. Were this a real confrontation, I'd have no chance of victory. Thankfully, it's not, and as I sink my teeth into his finger, a set of denture-shaped hollows form in his flesh. There's no blood or accompanying yowl of agony; just dents in his skeletal finger and a haughty smirk. I slowly ease my jaw open and he withdraws his finger. Smoothly, he spreads his arms wide and arches his spine, shouting to the ceiling, "Vanquish thy wicked spirit, child of God! In the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and savior, in the name of the Immaculate Virgin, expel this wretched devil from thy soul!" 

My jaw hangs unhinged for the tenth time today. Utterly exhausted and confused, I whisper to the raving hallucination, "I get it. You're not real, but I'm not Catholic. No _exorcism_ bullshit."

He tightens his knees around my waist. "Not a son of god, eh? No, more like  _Son of Sam_ ," he replies.

"I'm not crazy either. It's just a bad fucking trip," I retort. Predictably, he laughs. I cover my ears with my hands to drown it out. I shut my eyes painfully tight and silently plead for him to disappear. Instead of solacing solitude, though, I receive the sensation of the doppelganger's moist breath on my neck. He's being brazenly  _handsy_. He's feeling up my abdomen underneath my clothing, and he's being alarmingly gentle about it. As the spectre kneads soothing circles into my stomach, I reflect on my situation. The combination of substances I'd taken were enough to ruin my grasp of reason, but I'm still cognizant enough to know that this intruder is a figment of my mind. He's part of my psyche, humanized and projected before me. He's my loneliness, I surmise. He's my mind politely informing me that I'm desperately craving company. As the hallucination rucks my jacket and t-shirt around my pectorals, I decide to yield to my subconscious and let him continue.

"Heh. Not bad," he mumbles into my neck, "You're not gonna' get away with playing dead, though. Put some goddamn effort in."

I snap at that remark. He's not a girl, and he's not real, but he's warm enough and he realistically imitates breathing. That's good enough. I unzip his familiar jacket and throw it aside. Amidst another chorus of mirth, he yanks my wrists off of him and undresses the rest of us. Us -- separately together -- it's a weird notion to explain. Half of our clothes seem to evaporate into thin air after I glance away from them, and the naked abdomen of my identical twin is pressed against me, and that'll have to serve as sufficient exposition.

I'm warm and slick with sweat as the doppelganger gropes my flaccid cock. He's got his bony fingers clenched around the stem and he jerks it until it's erect. It's leaking translucent fluid into the tuft of pubic hair surrounding the shaft. 

"You're pent up, buddy," he hisses while flicking his thumb over my moist glans. His opposite fist wrenches my hand against his groin and guides me in reciprocating the handjob. With the hallucination bearing down on me, I can't maneuver into a more comfortable position. I can't see the thick, stiff erection I'm squeezing, but I can feel the bulging tension in his scrotum and the frustrated lust radiating off him. It hovers in the cramped bedroom as a hazy musk. If I didn't know better, I could mistake it for a gas leak. Painlessly suffocating in the doppelganger's licentious ether, I haphazardly jerk him off. I must look as concussed as I feel, because he pauses briefly to gawk at my face. Amused by my inexperience and shame, but clearly impatient, he swats away my hand and assumes control. With one hand wrapped tightly around our erections and another pinching the nape of my neck, he urges me into a harsh kiss while working me over the edge. The sensation of his teeth gnawing into my lower lip vaults me over the precipice of an orgasm. Climaxing with a throaty whine, I leak like a spigot onto his fist.

"And thus concludes amateur hour," he taunts me cheerfully. Before I can recover from the pulsating peak of my orgasm, the doppelganger's forcefully rutting against my stomach. He's smearing my fluid everywhere as he pursues his rightful climax. His cock jolts twice and he arches tautly over my limp body, gnashing his teeth as he comes on my chest. The outlines of his biceps cut sharply into his skin -- he's built like a goddamn marble sculpture -- as he tenses. Groaning audibly, he goes slack atop me. Dotingly tracing his finger along the bruises he left in his wake, the bizarre reflection lazily sprawls out, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he's crushing me. I try to shove him off; no dice.

"C'mon, I'm fucking tired," he complains. I relent and lie back. Sedated by the Vicodin and the lingering pleasure of our carnality, I fall asleep on the carpet.


	8. avoidance

A long and dreamless slumber is too much to ask for. I'm awoken shortly after falling into unconsciousness not by the prying and laughing of my doppelganger, but by an ear-splitting, mechanical shriek coming from the kitchenette. The carbon monoxide detector is screaming shrilly as I jolt to my feet. Rushing into the kitchenette, I cast light into the pitch black room with a flick of a switch. Oh, this isn't good. I can't tell if my lightheaded wobbling is from the gas leak or the copious amount of drugs I'd ingested prior. Scanning the room quickly, I locate the source of the leak: the camp stove. Briefly, a dangerous thought flickers through my mind; I could just leave it on. I could leave it running until I was thoroughly poisoned and die in a sound sleep. As I cross the room to the stove and lay my hand on the knob, I hesitate a tad longer than I rightfully should. The thought of a comfortable death -- an end to my dilemmas and ennui -- is too tempting to ignore. 

As I internally debate fumigating my apartment with toxic gas, I hear a loud knock at the door. The alarm must have woken the neighbors. Instantly turning off the stove, I rush to clothe myself. The knocking persists, accompanied by the voice of a clearly agitated woman. "Just -- just a minute," I call out as I peek through the blinds to identify the woman. It's the middle-aged widow from the apartment next door. She's clad in a polka-dotted pajama set and wielding a flashlight and cellphone. The woman was a notorious busybody who tended to pry into the life of anyone who was unfortunate enough to catch her interest. She was also an acquaintance of my mother. For me, that meant trouble in spades. I crack open the door and meet her with a warning: "There's been a gas leak." She purses her lips, unimpressed, and waves her flashlight threateningly. "Is it still going?" she asks, "You need to open the windows and let the gas out." I nod silently before adding, "It's over. I...I left the stove on, but now it's off." 

I can feel her suspicion prickling down my spine. She shines the flashlight brazenly in my face before turning to retire to bed once more. "Try to keep track of your things. You could've killed yourself," she hissed as she left. I have a feeling my mother is going to be hearing about this. I do as the woman advised me to, opening all the windows and turning on the sole ceiling fan in the living room. Eventually the migraine-inducing wailing of the carbon monoxide detector died down and the last remnants of the odorless gas escaped the building. Order had been restored to the apartment. After closing and locking the windows, I withdraw into my bedroom and sit on the mattress with my head cradled in my hands. Only once I'm certain that I'm truly alone -- that the nightmare has ended -- do I hear another voice come from nearby.

"Couldn't do it, couldja', coward?"


End file.
